


Plan Normandy

by BlueMoon0nTheRise



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Escape, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gunshot Wounds, Happy Ending, M/M, Plot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25319185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMoon0nTheRise/pseuds/BlueMoon0nTheRise
Summary: With time running out, the gang's escape options are limited. They need to get out of the Bank of Spain before the police get in. They're left with no other option than to initiate Plan Normandy, a wild contingency that was never meant to be put into action.This is the story of their escape, and all the days that followed.
Relationships: Denver | Daniel Ramos/Mónica Gaztambide, Denver | Daniel Ramos/Mónica Gaztambide/Rio | Aníbal Cortés, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Raquel Murillo/Alicia Sierra, Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina, Rio | Aníbal Cortés/Tokyo | Silene Oliveira
Comments: 34
Kudos: 99





	1. The escape

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wondering for a while how the gang are going to get out of the Bank of Spain without a tunnel, and this is the conclusion I've come to. The one slight creative liberty I've taken is assuming that they managed to get the trucks they arrived in actually inside the building.
> 
> This first chapter is the escape itself, and the reunion of our friends inside the bank with the Professor and Marseille. The ones that follow will follow the gang as they resettle into their post-heist lives. I've currently set it as a two-chapter story, but depending on how much I write, I may divide the 'after' chapter into multiple chapters, dividing by couple/group.
> 
> This kind of follows on from my [Red phones and red lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24361825) fic, but you don't have to read that to understand this one, as they are both pretty much canon-compliant.
> 
> Please do leave a comment if you have thoughts - they are always very much appreciated.

_**2 MINUTES BEFORE THE ESCAPE** _

Across Madrid, billboards started to change.

A hush fell in the streets, and as the adverts and rolling news flickered and died, they were replaced with a masked robber. Slowly, purposefully, the mask was removed to reveal the man beneath.

‘Friends’, he said. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m the Professor. I’m the man in charge of the heist on the Bank of Spain.’

‘We didn’t come here to steal your gold. We came here to rescue our friend, Rio, who was illegally held and tortured on the orders of the state. Because the state cares more about gold than it does about people.’

‘In response, your police force sanctioned the killing of another one of our own. Nairobi was murdered on the orders of Colonel Tamayo.’

He took a steadying breath.

‘And, as you already know, Lisbon was also illegally detained, and her execution faked, on the orders of Inspector Alicia Sierra.’

‘No one else will be abused by the police today. Not my friends, not the hostages inside the bank and not you. Today, everybody wins.’

‘And today, we need you: the resistance.’

‘I don’t ask for your help in return for nothing, however.’

‘We will bring the gold to you. It is your choice what you do with it. All I ask for in return is that you prevent the police from entering the bank.’

As he spoke, the gathered crowd, deathly quiet before, began to awake. A ripple ran down every street – urgent whispers, heads together. Then, all at once, they started to move.

‘The system won’t reward those of you who stand by. It will march on after today, uncaring. It will murder my family, and then it will move onto yours. But if you help – you will save more than just the people inside the bank. And we’ll always be there to protect those who fight for us.’

The movement picked up its pace, and the population as one surged towards the bank. Shop assistants and hairdressers and mechanics abandoned their posts and joined the swelling crowd.

‘We are the resistance’, he said, and the crowd echoed the call.

‘Resist.’

**_4 HOURS BEFORE THE ESCAPE_ **

Down in the vault, things were chaotic.

Mónica was stressed. They’d been working for several hours, and morale was waning. It was no wonder. She herself was exhausted, dirty and sweating, and she, at least, had signed up for this. Her hair – even pulled back – dripped saltwater into her eyes, and her back and hands ached from hauling gold.

She’d divided the hostages into shifts to avoid them all giving up at once, but it was thankless work. She had Bogota and a few of the less mobile hostages dividing gold into smaller bags before it was taken up. Once divided, the bags were passed down a long chain towards the front door. Denver, Rio, Manila, Tokyo and Lisbon were all in the chain with the rest of the hostages, working non-stop, as were the blacksmiths. She watched Denver for a moment. She could see a vein in his forehead, could see how he contemplated each new sack of gold handed to him with venom, but also how he worked to keep his features blank, as if the pouring sweat and the stress weren’t reason enough to be nursing simmering rage, as if everyone else didn’t also want to scream.

She looked away, and headed back into the lift and along the line. She yelled encouragement, and when she saw someone struggling, she’d drag their burden along to the next worker, to give them even just a moment’s relief. She collected empty water bottles and handed out fresh ones, and she kept going.

By the doors, Palermo was orchestrating the gold’s outward travel. The trucks they’d arrived in stood ready to leave as he and Helsinki heaved sack after sack into them. They were about half full, but the plan was to cram them to the roof, until only a driver would fit beside the stacked gold. Mónica wasn’t sure they’d move, but it wasn’t like they needed to go far.

They were also filling small rucksacks – to be strapped to the backs of the escaping hostages when they opened the front doors in mere hours. On the way to the fresh water bottles, Mónica helped Helsinki pour gold into a few. He grinned at her – sweating worse than Denver and clearly too out of breath for speech. She rubbed his shoulder reassuringly, nodded at Palermo, and walked back up the line, distributing water.

She felt terrified and exhausted and exhilarated all at once, but she liked this escape plan, at least in terms of the ideology of it. They didn’t need this gold, and as far as she was concerned, this heist had always been about Rio, not the financial gain. It was another variation on Plan Chernobyl, it was for the people – and the Professor had assured her there would be people – for them to do with what they wanted. He had accomplices outside to seize a share for them and slip away, but it wasn’t the main thing. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting the gold out the front door.

And after that, all she wanted was to see Cincinnati again and to _talk_ , really talk with Denver. It seemed impossible through inside the haze of stress and fear that hung over the bank, but she new it would happen. It had to.

**_3 HOURS BEFORE THE ESCAPE_ **

Not for the first time, Sergio Marquina felt like his body might give up on him. His logical mind knew what had to be done, but the cocktail of dread and adrenaline coursing through him made his knees weak and his hands tremble. He balled his quaking fingers into fists. This wasn’t the moment to fall apart, not as he, Marseille and Inspector Sierra scrambled to shove necessities into bags and move out.

He handed out earpieces, and fastened his own clumsily, trying to quell his rising anger – at himself, at the inspector, even at Marseille. Marseille was cool and methodical, and Sergio would have dearly loved to say the same about himself.

He thought back to the first heist. At this stage, things had felt so much more controlled. Yes, he’d had people on the lookout for Raquel – under strict orders to restrain her but _not_ harm her – yes, his stomach ached at the thought of seeing Helsinki and Denver after failing in his promise to get everyone out alive. But he’d still had _time_. He’d had _time_ to wander around the bank, _time_ to load the money into the truck and time, even, to talk to Raquel, to try and get her to understand, to kiss her one last time. It was only Andrés who’d run out of time, in the end.

He swallowed hard.

‘Palermo, can you hear me?’ he asked, flicking the wireless earpiece on.

This time, he thought, watching Palermo react to his voice on the monitor, eyes swivelling to look up at the security camera, this time they had nothing. If the tanks rolled in now, he’d lose the entire team. All it took was one order, and they’d all be dead, or worse.

It was quite something, he thought, packing with renewed fury, to have to hope that the people you loved most died, if you didn’t get there in time. The thought sat like lead in his chest.

‘Loud and clear’, Palermo replied, and Sergio’s mind jolted back to the present. ‘Everyone’s set.’

He checked in with the rest of the gang as fast as he could, as around him Marseille ripped out cables and Inspector Sierra doused every available surface with petrol. He felt light-headed.

Denver joked, and Stockholm was solemn. Tokyo mirrored his own simmering rage. Bogota was downtrodden but Manila seemed upbeat. Rio laughed too much, and Helsinki not enough. When he got to Raquel he thought for a moment his legs might give way, and his voice cracked, utterly failing to hide his fear.

‘God, Raquel’, he said, watching Marseille pack the monitors into cases.

He’d have liked to have been able to see her – not for the last time, he reminded himself, not for the last time – but just for the last time before they left, just in case. Their last real conversation ran through his head again, just like it had when he’d thought her dead – his words cutting and cruel. The man who stopped his friends from murdering Gandía using his words like weapons, violence seeping from him and poisoning the air between them. Watching her eyes turn to ice.

Her voice wrenched him back – it was low and calm and warm. She was saying his name.

‘Sergio?’

‘Yes?’

‘I said we’re going to be fine’, she said, and he realised he must have tuned out. Stupid. _Listen_.

He nodded, then realised she couldn’t see him.

‘I know’, he whispered.

‘I mean it’, she said, hearing the quiver in his voice. ‘I mean it Sergio. There’s no other option, do you hear me? Everyone lives.’

He squeezed his eyes shut. If he’d been religious he might have prayed, but much as he appreciated the history and symbolism involved in religion he’d never found a faith convincing enough to invest himself in. But as they descended the stairs to the car and ripped off the number plate for a new one, as they sped away and watched the hideout burn in the rear-view mirror, he thought he might be able to believe in Raquel.

**_35 MINUTES BEFORE THE ESCAPE_ **

They arrived at their destination with fewer minutes to spare than Sergio would have liked.

It was an unassuming, abandoned school playing field in a tiny village about 100 miles outside Madrid, its students having long since departed for the city. There were a few smashed windows, and the grass was long and speckled with dandelions. As Sergio, Marseille and Alicia jumped out of the car, they could even hear birdsong. Everything about the setting was unremarkable, except for the hulking military helicopter sat in the centre of the field, and the assortment of cars, vans and caravans that were parked neatly in the carpark. There was no one else here, not for miles. Sergio took a long, calming inhale, and dared to hope.

Alicia, meanwhile, lost no time taking her leave. She'd already packed a small bag - in it only a phone and wad of cash, with the promise of more - and as soon as they were out she headed straight for one of the parked cars - a little blue Renault Clio, with the car keys left on the driver's seat.

Sergio, who'd already unlocked the new caravan, watched from its doorstep as she revved the engine, and took in the scene before them.

Behind her, only him and that helicopter, ahead, endless possibility. It did occur to her, as she checked her mirrors, that in a shootout she could take him. She could leave him to bleed out on the concrete. She could rip out the heart of the gang that ruined her life. The helicopter she would let go, and the rest would still get away, but they wouldn’t be in time to save him.

She toyed with the possibility, rolled the taste of it on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t want him to get away with it, two for two, two inspectors’ lives altered irreparably. She didn’t want the man who finally outwitted her to have a happy ending. And Raquel might seem happy for now, but they both knew how wrong it could still go, whether it was tomorrow, next week, or in twenty years. No peace, not ever. Not for either of them.

It was the thought of Raquel that stopped her lingering, in the end. She took one last look at him and she sped away, her tyres screeching on the tarmac. She couldn’t see him in those last few seconds, not anymore. No, it was Raquel’s face across that table that she saw, her anguish obvious even through gritted teeth and steely eyes as Alicia tried to wrench an answer from her: him or your family? The trouble was, she’d realised too late, they were the same. And, worse, Alicia herself wasn’t in that family anymore. She’d torn herself away from the love of Raquel Murillo, the woman who’d once been stabbed in her stead, just like she’d have been shot in the Professor’s.

Neither of them fucking deserved her, Alicia knew that. But she at least deserved to be left with what she wanted.

Before long, the field and caravan and helicopter were out of sight.

‘Stockholm, are you there?’ Sergio asked.

He was still sat in the doorway of the grubby white campervan, feet rested on the pavement, his gaze resting on the rubber tracks where Alicia’s car had just been. His right hand gripped the handle of a gun. It was clammy, and his heart thrummed a painful samba against his ribs. Beyond the tyre marks, Marseille was already in the helicopter, the blades whirring into motion.

It took her a second to answer him.

‘I’m here Professor.’

‘Good’, he said, releasing the gun from his grip, and wiping both hands nervously on his trousers. ‘If the helicopter arrives in 30 minutes, can you get all the gold out?’

‘Yes, of course’, she said, and he was impressed by how steady her voice was. ‘See you soon.’

She cut the line, and he smiled.

The urge to call Raquel again reared its head, but he resisted, getting up from the step and turning to attend to the equipment in the back of the van instead. He mustn’t distract her.

‘Palermo?’ he said.

‘Professor!’

‘Are the entrances still secure?’

‘They certainly are’, Palermo said. Sergio could hear that he was out of breath, just as he could hear the soft thud of gold being dropped into trucks.

‘Good’, he said. ‘The helicopter will be with you in 30 minutes.’

He took a long breath, trying not to imagine what could happen in the next half an hour if the police saw the helicopter approaching and decided to break in early. But there was nothing to do, nothing except wait.

He radioed Marseille.

‘Whenever you’re ready’, he said.

‘Affirmative’, came the reply, immediately.

And with that, 100 miles from the bank, a helicopter took to the sky.

**_15 MINUTES BEFORE THE ESCAPE_ **

Raquel was huddled at the bottom of the stairway to the roof with a small group of hostages she’d spent the day singling out. She’d watched them sweat as she helped haul the gold, watched how they interacted with each other and her colleagues.

They were an odd mix. Most were people who she thought wouldn’t scare or tire too easily or be too rebellious, some were there simply because they had the misfortune of having a similar body type to one of the robbers, and one was there because she wanted to get him away from Mónica, Denver and Amanda.

It was a horrible escape plan, she thought. The first time Sergio outlined it to her she’d laughed. They’d been lying in bed, and he’d had his arms around her. Their voices were slurred slightly with sleep, but despite the late hour they’d resisted drifting off. The days of calm were running through their hands like sand and Raquel at least, who might ordinarily have disentangled herself and closed her eyes, found a knot in her stomach whenever she contemplated the days that were to come. It wasn’t the prospect of death or prison that worried her – the plan was shaky in places, but it should allow them to escape with their lives and freedom at least. She was worried how Sergio would feel – really feel – having her in his space, in a space he’d never shared with anyone, how split-second decision-making was going to work when two people were trying to make the decision.

It hadn’t been at all comforting for those fears to be vindicated.

But that night they’d been content, and she hadn’t brought it up. She had her head tucked under his chin and his arms wrapped around her waist, and they’d been running through some of the more ridiculous contingency plans, interspersing them with kisses and laughter.

She’d been half-listening when he told her, running her lips experimentally from collarbone to jaw, idly wondering if either of them had the energy to do anything more, when she’d heard the word, ‘Normandy’. She’d stopped kissing his throat to meet his eyes, and he’d definitely looked a little disappointed. Still, he’d smiled at how easily she’d become distracted, and said that they’d go through it properly tomorrow. When she’d held the eye contact and raised her eyebrows sternly, he’d laughed and outlined it again.

It took her a while to realise he wasn’t winding her up. Still, he’d assured her that it would never be used, it was just in case. She’d resettled against his chest, satisfied, and they’d finally drifted off, both too tired to do anything else.

She’d never anticipated that not only would her life depend on it, but that she’d be the person who would somehow have to convince fifteen hostages to not rip their masks off as soon as they got to the roof, despite the fact not doing so brought with it the distinct possibility of getting shot by military snipers. Were she in their position, she’d risk being shot by the robbers.

She longed to be back in that night in Italy. Perhaps she’d have convinced Sergio that the better course of action would be to burst into the facility where Rio was being held, all guns blazing. Or perhaps she’d go back further, to Palawan, to live forever in the perfect year before safety meant turning a blind eye to injustice.

God, this was _such_ a shit plan, she thought, handing out bulletproof vests and helmets and imitation guns and adjusting her hostages’ grips on the weapons. Sergio better thank his lucky stars that he didn’t try this one when she was against him. And Palermo had better thank his that they were escaping in separate vehicles, because if she survived, she was going to kill him.

‘Right’, she said, watching as they fumbled with the straps of the vests. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. When I give the signal, you, along with all of _us_ , are going to head out onto the roof with your masks on and hoods up, and we’re _all_ going to climb into a helicopter.’

She smiled at the stunned faces.

‘Don’t worry’, she said lightly. ‘We’re not going far, and the police will come and pick you up once we’ve landed.’

‘What if they try to shoot us?’ asked one of the women nervously.

Raquel indicated the vests and helmets.

‘It’s a risk’, she said. ‘But they can’t tell us apart, there are far too many of us for us all to be robbers, and the helicopter is a very easy target for them to follow. Shooting you makes no sense.’

‘Ha!’ an all-too-familiar voice interjected, and Raquel closed her eyes, wondering if it would truly matter if she, a woman already wanted by Interpol, was to murder Arturo. ‘When I went out onto the roof of the Royal Mint’ – he paused and looked around, as if hoping for applause for his involvement in the first heist – ‘you’ – he jabbed a finger at Raquel – ‘ordered me to be shot. I could have died.’

‘Yes’, she admitted. ‘I had you shot. But you were waving a gun around while everyone else was on the ground. That won’t be replicated.’

Arturo fell silent, mollified.

‘What if they just decide to take a chance?’ the same woman asked. Her eyes were wide and fearful now, as if she was only now taking in what Raquel was asking of them, and she bunched the material of her jumpsuit into white-knuckle fists.

‘They’ll never shoot to kill someone they don’t know the identity of, so the worst you could you expect would be a leg wound’, she said. Several hostages flinched. ‘But more than that, who do you think’s more likely to shoot out of the robbers and the police? If you do something that jeopardises the escape, we die. Are you positive that Helsinki or Tokyo or Denver wouldn’t kill you to stop that happening? I’m not.’

She watched them pale, and she made a decision.

‘I’ll be going first anyway’, she assured them. ‘They won’t risk shooting us as we walk out onto the roof. When we start climbing into the helicopter they might take a chance. So I’ll go first.’

She glared around at the assembled people and, slowly, they nodded. She caught the eye of a man of roughly Rio’s build. He looked the least pale and sweaty of the lot.

‘You’, she said. ‘You second. No matter what happens to me.’

He swallowed, but nodded.

‘Good’, she said.

She lined them up single-file, and walked along the row, tightening helmets and vests, and tucking the women’s hair out of sight.

As she held their hands and answered question after question, she prayed she could survive this. Both Sergio and Palermo had insisted on a hostage going first – because, realistically, it made no sense to put any hostages onto the aircraft, so the police would assume that the first person up would be part of the gang. So, when the that person inevitably _was_ shot, and was revealed to be a hostage, it would protect all subsequent climbers.

But Raquel wasn’t the kind of person to ask someone to get shot for her, and nor did she consider the hostages stupid. They knew the first person up that ladder would be shot at, and so if it wasn’t her, then it would be no one, and if no one went they’d all be dead.

The trick would be holding on after they took the shot. She had no idea if she was capable of that.

She remembered what she’d said to Sergio, and she knew: falling wasn’t an option. Everyone was going to live. Including her – especially her.

She wrenched herself from her morbidity, and found his frequency.

‘I’m ready to go up to the roof with the fifteen hostages’, she reported.

‘Good’, he replied. ‘Marseille will be with you in ten minutes. The others are still packing.’

‘Received’, she confirmed.

**_A MINUTE LATER_ **

‘That’s it!’ Stockholm yelled from the lift, and a bubble of excitement ran along the chain.

People dropped to the floor in relief, their faces red to match their jumpsuits but splitting into grins nonetheless. Some hugged each other, and a smattering of applause rang through the halls. As she swept past, Denver grabbed her by the hand. Their eyes met, and he swung her towards him and into a hug. She squeezed him hard, then wordlessly dragged him by the hand towards the front door, towards Palermo and Helsinki.

‘That’s it’, she said again, grinning and striding straight into Helsinki’s arms. He swung her round, then slammed the trucks shut jubilantly.

‘We’re getting out of here’, Stockholm breathed, tears suddenly blurring her vision. She stifled a sob and then a laugh, and she, Helsinki, Denver and Palermo collapsed into a breathless, relieved embrace.

‘We’re getting out’, Helsinki repeated, squeezing them all much too tight.

They were interrupted only by the rest of the hostages being herded towards the doors.

Mónica looked up from the embrace, straightened her jumpsuit, and caught Rio’s eye. He grinned at her from across the room, then produced explosives from both pockets with a flourish. She laughed, and pulled Denver with her to join him.

‘Ten minutes and we’re out’, she said, smiling up at him and slinging her free arm around his neck.

‘Better go and set these then’, he said, and they turned and started up the stairs, with Helsinki and Bogota following along in their wake.

Tokyo’s eyes followed the trajectory of Mónica’s hand on Rio as they left, but her face stayed poker-straight.

**_5 MINUTES BEFORE THE ESCAPE_ **

Palermo ascended the stairs too, but not to leave, not yet. Instead, he surveyed the assembled hostages one last time – his kingdom, the key to this operation, their ticket home.

‘Friends’, he said, spreading his arms wide. ‘We’ve come to the end of our time here, and I hope we all leave this bank today as better people.’

He glanced sideways, where Tokyo was caressing her gun and scowling.

‘For the last time, I need you to do exactly what I say’, he went on. ‘Each of you will take a rucksack’ – he indicated the pile beside the trucks – ‘and when the front doors open in three minutes, you will run out of them as if your life depended on it.’

Tokyo turned her glare to the assembled crowd, who balked. She stared into the amassed hostages, daring someone to refuse.

‘No one will get hurt’, Palermo went on. ‘You can keep your bag of gold or you can drop it, and after that you go on your merry way. My good friends Manila and Matías will be driving the trucks, and I’ve told them to be _very_ careful not to run any of you over.’

He laughed softly, and paused.

‘Let’s go!’.

He watched the trucks snarl into life by the door, watched a sea of red amass around them, watched Tokyo back towards the stairs, ready to run, firing her gun into the air, whether in celebration or threat, he didn't know.

‘In position’, he said, hand on his earpiece.

**_1 MINUTE BEFORE THE ESCAPE_ **

The city stopped as the Professor spoke and then, gradually, it started to move, like a great beast, towards the bank.

The protesters outside strained against their chains. Wave after wave of people arrived behind them, jostling for position, pushing the police further and further back.

On the billboards, the Professor started counting down from ten. Behind the tower blocks and skyscrapers, a helicopter rose, huge and menacing, its propellers slicing the eerie silence as it moved towards the Bank of Spain.

**_2 MINUTES EARLIER_ **

When Rio, Denver, Stockholm, Bogota and Helsinki reached the final stairwell before the top floor, they paused – there was one final element to put in place.

Silently, they moved to secure explosives to every wall, Rio checking everyone’s work and then the detonator, making certain that it was primed and ready. This was their last line of defence.

Then, they climbed the final few steps to accept vests, helmets and hugs from Lisbon. She put them into the line-up, and they waited.

Even here, secluded in the little stairwell, they could feel the world outside changing. The throb of the approaching helicopter hummed through them, stronger and stronger, and soon they could hear the Professor’s voice booming out across the city. They could hear shouts from the street, and car horns, bubbling up into the atmosphere and swallowing them. Hope.

But there was gunfire downstairs too, sudden and violent. Raquel looked at Rio. He was white.

She held out her hand for the detonator and he handed it over without a word. Just as she’d refused to betray Sergio, even at the cost of her own life, she knew Rio would never trap Tokyo, not even after what had happened. If the decision had to be made, it couldn’t be by him.

To avoid Rio’s gaze, she smiled at the man beside her encouragingly. He looked nervous, but he seemed to be holding up well. His hands shook but he was clenching his jaw and staring determinedly ahead. Satisfied, Raquel tried to quell her own fear, to channel it into focus. Paula was counting on her, her mother was counting on her and, less than 100 miles away, Sergio was too. He’d never forgive her if she didn’t make it out of the bank alive.

Suddenly his voice was in her ear.

‘Raquel? Raquel!’

‘I’m here.’

‘I need you on the roof in twenty seconds. Palermo, Tokyo, are they –’

‘Not yet. They’ll get here.’

‘Raquel, if they don’t…’

‘I know’, she said sharply. She took a breath. ‘I know. But no one’s dying on my watch, Sergio, not if I can help it. No one.’

He didn’t reply, and she hoped that if those were the last words she ever said to him that he’d understand that it wasn’t his fault. That she loved him.

Outside, his disembodied voice started to count.

The helicopter was close now, the thrum of its engine almost painful in its intensity.

‘Masks on’, she ordered, surveying the line of people behind her. ‘When he reaches zero, we move. Single file, no sudden movements, as we planned. If any of you break formation, I _guarantee_ you will regret it.’

She pulled up her own hood. Her head was clear as her finger hovered over the detonator.

They had to make it. They _had_ to.

And suddenly there they were, dashing towards them as outside the Professor reached _three_ , scrambling for vests and helmets.

‘Are they behind you?’ Raquel asked.

‘No’, Palermo said, grinning. ‘That crowd is going to give them quite a bit of trouble’.

Overhead, the helicopter was thunderous, and as Tokyo fastened the buckle of her helmet and drew her hood up, the line moved as one. Raquel held the detonator in her pocket and led them outside.

The ladder came down, and all Raquel could hear was her blood hammering through her veins. It was oddly calming. This was it, one way or another.

She counted to ten, slowly, and pressed the button in her pocket.

Behind them the stairs collapsed into the blast. Above, the helicopter grumbled a steady, menacing beat. Ahead, there were snipers, and down in the streets an almighty roar from the crowd. In the distance she could see flickering red billboards, his face and Dalí, static, _somos la resistencia._

It made her head spin.

Their line stretched out across the roof, comic order in the centre of a chaotic city. They stared into the eyes of the snipers opposite, their executioners. Beside her, Raquel felt the boy she’d selected to go second fully trembling. She didn’t blame him.

‘It’s ok’, she said, keeping her voice low and light. She didn’t dare reach out a reassuring hand, fearful of outing herself as a member of the gang.

So instead, she stepped forward.

She moved fast. She didn’t know if it was fear or instinct, but she moved. In her mind she could hear the shouting in that tent. They couldn’t afford to kill her, not an anonymous masked figure strolling across a roof with a gun that might be fake. What they’d be frantically trying to decide would be whether they could take a non-lethal shot at her on the ladder, because if she got into the helicopter that was it until they could figure out where it was going to land. But if they incapacitated her enough to prevent her climbing, she was going to prison for the rest of her life.

She thought all this in the seconds-long walk to the base of the ladder, and with grim determination reached for the first rung. This time, she couldn’t fail. There would be no second chances.

_Everybody_ lives.

She climbed. Rung after rung, swinging wildly in the wind but going up, up, up. Her heart soared and she felt tears run down her face, and still she _climbed_ : faster and faster. She could see a man she didn’t recognise in the belly of the aircraft above her, hand outstretched.

And then it came – the blinding pain as a bullet tore through her thigh.

_Fuck_.

She felt her hands slip and her stomach turn. She fought against her failing consciousness, her vision blurring as a cry of pain burst from her lips.

The city swirled beneath her – a hellish panorama that throbbed, and yet willed her on – and suddenly her hand was in someone else’s, and she was being hauled into the helicopter, both of them grunting with the effort. And then she felt cool metal against her skin, and the man who had pulled her inside ripped off her mask, clapped her on the shoulder and grinned at her.

‘Watch yourself, Lisbon’, he said, winking, and she realised that he was one of the men who’d rescued her from the court. Sick as she felt, she managed to smile back.

‘I’m starting to build up quite a debt’, she quipped, forcing herself to sit upright. ‘Do you know where the med supplies are?’

He pointed.

As she scrambled for bandages and antiseptic, the hostage boy was climbing.

Raquel glanced down at her leg. It wasn’t as bad as it could be, she thought – there was no bullet to remove, although looking at the hole in her flesh made her lightheaded. Still, it needed cleaning, and soon, and she needed to stem the bleeding too. Blood was quickly pooling beneath her.

Then she heard another shot, then a scream, and a string of expletives from her saviour with the outstretched hands.

‘What happened?’ she yelled, terrified for the boy who’d just fallen from the helicopter on her orders, and even more for her friends below, who were relying on the hostages’ nerve to get them safely home.

‘Shot in the leg’, the man reported. He peered out the hole. ‘He’s awake – they’re showing the snipers his face. He didn't fall far.’

The next three people up the ladder were Stockholm, Denver and Rio, who all ascended without being shot at.

‘How’s the kid?’ she asked them.

‘He’s going to have a headache tomorrow’, Denver said. ‘But he’s fine, talking and smiling and everything. What kind of fucking idiot lets go?’

Stockholm frowned at him, but she didn’t say anything, and Raquel took that to mean that the boy was indeed fine.

After Rio they let five more hostages come up, then Helsinki, then Tokyo. Both swore at the state of her leg, and both hugged her.

Then three more hostages made their way up, then, Bogota, then another hostage, and then, finally, Palermo.

‘What the _fuck_ were you doing, going first?’ Palermo asked, spitting angry the moment his head entered the helicopter. ‘I think Sergio and I made ourselves perfectly clear.’

Raquel didn’t answer. She was beginning to feel a little dizzy from the blood loss, and was both surprised and touched when Tokyo squared up to Palermo in her stead.

‘Lisbon doesn’t answer to either of you’, she said. ‘She’s a free woman – free to get shot in the fucking leg if she wants. You lived, didn’t you?’

She yanked Palermo’s earpiece off him, and stalked to the other end of the aircraft to talk to Stockholm.

They left the final six hostages on the roof and finally, finally, pulled away.

_**10 SECONDS BEFORE THE ESCAPE** _

Manila jumped into the truck, slammed the door, and revved the engine. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, but this was what she came for: to be a real part of the heist. Suddenly, she was integral.

Outside she could hear the roar of a crowd, and the Professor’s voice, starting to count. She looked sideways at the other truck, caught Matías’s eye, and grinned.

As Rio had ensured earlier, the doors edged open as the voice outside reached _five_ , and she hovered her foot over the accelerator.

_One_.

Daylight poured into the bank, and the truck, weighed down with gold, stuttered forwards beneath her.

Then a wall of sound hit, and all she could see were people running: red and white and black, sprinting towards her as she emerged, open arms, their masks matching hers.

She kept her foot on the pedal, going slow enough so as not to hurt their new accomplices, but once clear of the doors she stopped, leapt from the truck, and threw open the doors.

As soon as her feet hit the concrete, she was free. She was not in her jumpsuit, just a mask and ordinary clothing, and with no gun, she could have been anyone. She helped herself to a sack of gold, grabbed another to put into the getaway truck, and joined the throng of people pouring away from the bank, the police helpless to stop them.

**_THE ESCAPE_ **

With Helsinki’s help, Raquel spent most of the journey trying to stem her bleeding. Her blood soaked their hands and clothes quickly, but she felt oddly in control. They cut one of the legs off her jumpsuit so they could clean the wound, then repurposed the material as a makeshift tourniquet. Raquel winced as Helsinki yanked it tight, but he squeezed her shoulder and regaled her with tales of his and Nairobi’s plans post-heist with sad eyes.

Palermo eyed them warily from the other end of the helicopter, his fingers twitching, clearly itching to call the Professor and inform him of this reckless act of rebellion. But she stared him down, and he didn’t dare.

The helicopter touched down half an hour later in the rural school field about 100 miles outside Madrid. There were no police, no ANPR on the roads. Just him, and little dirt roads for miles around.

Denver, Stockholm and Rio left the helicopter first, and Raquel could hear their joyous whoops as their feet hit the grass. Bogota and Palermo followed. Then it was her turn.

‘I’ll go first’, Helsinki said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll catch you.’

He disappeared, and with Tokyo’s help, Raquel hobbled over to the hole. She used the single rope this time: she could slide, but there wasn’t a chance she could use a ladder. Down below, the grass was whipped flat by the force of the blades, and there was Helsinki, waiting for her.

She smiled at Tokyo, took a steadying breath, and jumped.

And then she saw him: standing in the carpark maybe 300 metres away, arms held stiffly at his sides, watching her descent onto the field with tears in his eyes. And then he was running towards her, and with a whispered _thank you_ to Helsinki she was walking towards him too, as fast as she could bear.

‘You’re hurt’, he said, eyes fixed on her bloodied leg as he cupped her face, as he ran his hands down her arms to hold her hands. Then: ‘You’re _alive_.’

She kissed him, hard.

He clung to her as if she were a raft in an endless ocean, and she felt tears on her cheeks, although she couldn’t tell if they were her own or his. They were laughing in delight as they kissed, they were _sobbing_ , muttering unintelligible love and apologies against each other’s faces. He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around him as best she could and kept kissing him earnestly, desperately.

‘Oi, Professor, Lisbon’, said Denver, his laughter audible even above the helicopter. ‘Put each other down and come kiss us goodbye too.’

They didn’t comply immediately, but he did begrudgingly set her back on the ground after a few more moments, and they broke apart.

Palermo was the first to step forward, and he made good on Denver’s threat, kissing Sergio full on the mouth as the latter spluttered his objection. He knew better than to try the same with Raquel, but when he offered her his hand, she pulled him into a hug instead.

‘Well you didn’t quite manage to kill us’, she said, finding that in spite of it all, she only felt fondness.

‘You don’t need my help to get yourself killed’, Palermo retorted. Then, softer: ‘You and I don’t agree on things. But if I’d been standing here now explaining to him’ – he jerked his head in Sergio’s direction – ‘how you’d fallen out of a _fucking_ helicopter and I didn’t do anything to stop you, I _swear_ –’

He stopped, and pulled back from the hug, his eyes locked on Raquel’s. She nodded wordlessly, and rubbed his back. Sergio watched them, and when they both let go, pulled Palermo into a proper hug too, and the two men swayed together for a moment.

‘Goodbye Martín’, Sergio whispered.

Helsinki was leaving with Palermo, so as the latter started their getaway car he stepped forward. He pulled them both in at once, and both Raquel and Sergio pressed a kiss to his cheek. Raquel remembered his expression as he’d talked about Nairobi in the helicopter, and her tears, already close to the surface, bubbled over as she squeezed his hand then watched him speed away with Palermo.

Bogota was next. He didn’t say much – he seemed more distant than even Helsinki. Raquel found herself consciously distancing herself from Sergio a little as he came to say goodbye, painfully aware of the space where Nairobi should have been. She should be by his side, sarcastic and excited and _happy_. Thinking about baby Ibiza. Planning.

Tokyo, Rio, Denver and Stockholm, meanwhile, all piled into the same van. Sergio watched them with a slightly perplexed expression. The couples treated one another gingerly, while the other relationships within the group seemed intact.

Tokyo hugged Sergio for a long time after the other three had walked back to the van, and he rubbed her back reassuringly, placing a kiss on her head when he realised she was crying.

‘You saved him, Tokyo’, Raquel said gently, taking over the hug and kissing her too. ‘Whatever happens, you did everything.’

She held her at arm’s length and smiled.

‘Stay in touch, okay?’

Tokyo nodded and, squeezing both of their hands one more time, headed to the van.

‘Everything okay?’ Sergio asked Raquel quietly.

‘I think so’, she said. ‘They just need time.’

They waited to make sure Marseille got away too. Somehow, his little car speeding into the distance didn’t look half as sad as Bogota’s. Raquel didn’t miss how tight Sergio held him as he said goodbye, and she felt immensely glad that Marseille had been there when she hadn’t been able to. She hoped they’d see him again.

Then it was their turn. Sergio got the medical kit from the back of the caravan and then he lifted her, bridal style and giggling, into the passenger seat.

‘You’re alive’, he whispered again into her hair, almost disbelieving.

Then he jumped into the driver’s seat, and they were off.

As Raquel cleaned and dressed her wound properly, they talked.

‘Marseille said someone had been shot’, Sergio said, navigating his way down country roads. ‘I was _so_ , so scared.’

‘Did he tell you I went into the helicopter first?’ Raquel asked.

There was a pause, in which the only noise was tyres on tarmac.

‘He didn’t.’

‘That’s why Palermo was angry.’

‘Ah.’

‘Are you?’ Raquel asked, fearing the answer.

He paused, but not for as long this time.

‘No’, he said, resolutely. ‘Your decision-making is measured and based on logic and morality.’

She laughed, and gave him a playful shove on the shoulder.

‘Yes’, she said. She grinned. ‘But you should know that if you’d have been in the bank I’d have had a fit if you’d gone up first.’

He laughed too.

‘There’s something else you should know’, she said, suddenly compelled to tell him. He had the right to know, she thought.

Her tone made him take his eyes off the road for a moment, concerned.

‘Alicia broke me’, she admitted. ‘In that tent. If Antoñanzas had been a minute later, I would have told her everything.’

Sergio sighed, then he seemed to make a decision, and he pulled over into a layby, so that he could face her properly.

‘Raquel’, he said, switching off the engine and cupping her face in his hands. ‘I don’t care. You –’ he struggled with the words ‘– you – I begged you to give me up in that forest. I begged you.’

He took a long, shuddering breath, and she held his forearms tight, squeezing reassuringly.

‘If I could have got there in time – I would have done _anything_. If I was in prison right now I wouldn’t care. Those shots were the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life. They _are_.’

They were both crying again now.

‘It was for Paula’, Raquel stammered through her tears. ‘And I thought you thought –’

‘You have nothing to explain’, he told her. ‘Nothing.’

She nodded. He reached out and held her, just for a moment. And then he pulled back, restarted the engine, and with a shared, watery smile, they drove on, further and further from the bank with every passing moment.


	2. Separate lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang and Alicia set up their lives across the globe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I can only apologise for taking so long to update this. I posted the first chapter in the midst of finishing up a big bit of coursework (I'm training to be a journalist), and quickly realised I had a LOT more work to do for that and very little time to do it in... and I had to, unfortunately, deprioritise this story.
> 
> However, due to the gap, I have had further inspiration, and I'm going to add a third chapter - I hope that makes up for it somewhat.
> 
> Do drop me a comment if you have any thoughts at all - I love love love getting comments and I will gladly take positive or negative critique.
> 
> Also, kindly imagine that they've set up a secure way to contact one another that isn't going to result in Interpol hunting them down whenever they pick up the phone. 
> 
> (Incidentally, if you're curious about the Alicia situation, you might want to read my 'Red phones and red lines' fic - it's nice and short and explains what's going on there.)

**_Alicia – near Lushof, South Africa_ **

Alicia’s disappearance was bad for their image.

Within a week, the internet was bursting at the seams with theories that she’d joined the gang. After all, she’d disappeared at the same time as them, and, just like them, she was nowhere to be found.

Sergio sometimes found himself up, hours after Raquel had drifted off, crouched in the back of the caravan or truck or warehouse, scrolling through blog after a blog.

Most of the theories centred around Raquel, who, the sites speculated, came back to Spain to convert more members of the police force to the gang’s cause. And where better to start than ex-best friend Alicia? They’d even somehow unearthed some old police academy photos. The two of them stood together, arms around each other, grinning in their brand-new uniforms. They looked radiant, and although there was some twenty years between that photo and the day he’d crashed into their lives, he felt some responsibility for the diminished joy in both women’s faces now. He turned back to his article.

Would Ángel be next? they speculated. Antoñanzas?

Sergio balled his fists, and resisted the urge to crash them down on his laptop, for fear of waking the woman beside him. If people believed Alicia to have joined them, they were finished. They’d be complicit and, worse, co-conspirators to state brutality, in it only for the gold.

Over the next few days, Sergio got in touch with Alicia’s carriers to arrange discreet leaks to counter the growing conspiracies. Not enough for her to be caught – they had a deal, after all – but enough to suggest that she didn’t have their backing. That she was struggling and alone.

As Sergio worked to save his reputation, the woman who had put it in danger stretched out on a towel in her new back garden.

She held a baby to her chest. He was grumbling a little in the heat, a tuft of bright blonde hair glowing in the afternoon sun, his fat little limbs wriggling against her.

She couldn’t decide if he looked like Germán. Sometimes she thought she saw a glimmer of her husband in the shape of the child’s nose or eyes, but then she’d blink and the resemblance would be gone. After all, he was only a baby. She’d once snorted at couples who searched for their own faces in those of their children, while soft, blank babyfaces blinked back.

The thought of Germán was still painful, even basking in the golden South African sun. It wasn’t so much his death, or even the squirming reminder of him that she’d forced out of her body in a derelict monastery in Portugal. It was the memory of his face smiling soppily across the dinner table, the feel of his lips on her forehead, the sound of his voice murmuring gentle encouragement every time she had sunk to the floor, knees trembling. Worse, the years after that, when cruelty became second nature, and when he’d rubbed her feet after she'd spent the day breaking ankles. Worst of all, her own silence. Quiet smiles, vague explanations, non-disclosure. He’d talk to her about it some nights, unawares, fantasising about reform, taking down the corruption and brutality from the inside, not knowing that the first to go would have to be her.

Or maybe he did know, deep down. Maybe she had been the cancer after all.

She lifted little Antonio off her chest, set him beside her on the blanket, and rolled to face him. She wasn’t sure what they were going to do here, not yet.

* * *

Alicia was a pragmatist.

She didn’t believe in long, drawn-out deliberations, and so she didn’t subject herself to them in her new life. It took her less than a week to figure out how she was going to occupy herself in this new, unfamiliar place.

The first step was an identity change. She was frankly appalled that none of that ridiculous gang had ever considered it. She chopped her hair short, got rid of the ruler-straight fringe, and dyed it all a dark, inconspicuous brown. With her glasses on too, she doubted her ex-colleagues would recognise her if she marched into HQ with a name badge on, and lone Interpol agents certainly wouldn’t. As an extra precaution, she switched out her sharp suits for flowing dresses and sandals. She got new ID, cards and papers that read _Annika Bakker_ in thin black letters. She rolled the sound of her new name on her tongue. She liked it.

Of course, language was also going to be an issue. She’d learned a little Afrikaans as a teenager, and as she rocked Antonio, and changed him and fed him, she practised. She wasn't going to use Spanish now, not ever. If possible, she intended to lose the accent too, until even the most observant onlooker could pinpoint her nowhere more specific than Europe.

And then she needed a job. She didn’t want to live the life of an idle millionaire, and she needed a substantial safety net in case of emergencies. For months she lived frugally off the cash Raquel and Sergio had paid her for her cooperation, practising her new language and nursing her post-natal body back to health. But when Afrikaans started to become easy, when she could move around without pain, she knew it was time. There was no question that she wanted to go back into law enforcement, but even with her new identity, she knew better than to approach the police. After some thought, she started looking into women’s prisons. Perhaps she could do some good this time.

**_Bogota – Yala, Sri Lanka_ **

For a while, all Bogota knew was anger and pain, against a backdrop of soft waves.

He would wander along the shore or into the forest, the images of Nairobi’s last moments replaying in his mind, blotting out the landscape. He had hundreds of millions of rupees in his bank account, but the cost of that fortune no longer seemed worth it. As he imagined the cold, soulless piles of cash in a vault somewhere, he also saw Sergio – a cool cerebral blue against the vicious, pulsing red of his pain. The man had always been strange, but it hadn’t mattered until now, not until his little obsession had torn Nairobi away. In those first few weeks, Sergio was a collage of meaningless platitudes, hushed tones and ice-cold stares that overlapped and glitched and rewound over and over. What he wouldn’t have given to have something – someone – concrete, to shake, to lock his fingers around their throat.

But even more than he cursed Sergio, he cursed Martín. Sergio might never have had the balls to enter the bank, but he had, at least, striven for safety at every turn. Martín was the one who had set Gandía loose, Martín was the man who had been so fragile or fucked up, or whatever the fuck was wrong with him, that he’d set a psychopathic killer free to murder them. He should have shot him dead while he still had the chance, or pushed him off the roof of that god-forsaken rat-trap.

In fact, after he was done walking, Bogota would fantasise about what he’d do if he ever got his hands on Martín again. Most nights, a bullet through the forehead seemed most apt.

* * *

After a month of aimless walks and solitary dinners, things started to change.

Water gushed into the kitchen, and Bogota watched the burst pipe flood the floor, with absolutely no idea where he might find a replacement. He’d not explored the populated parts of the local area, so engrossed was he in his grief. With no desire to venture up to Sri Jayawardenepura Kotte, he wandered towards the sound of people instead of away, and without too much trouble, befriended a local plumber. They could barely communicate, but with a combination of broken English phrases, pointing and beers, they managed it. They replaced the pipe together, and Basith – for that was his name, Bogota discovered a few hours into their acquaintance – not only pointed him in the direction of a local supplier, but invited him to a party happening that evening.

It took Bogota a moment. Before the heist, he would have accepted without question. But he’d spent a long time grieving by himself, and for a second, he wasn’t sure.

Basith was looking at him.

‘Yes’, Bogota said finally, in English, nodding. ‘Thank you.’

* * *

After the party, things got easier. He and Basith became friends, but even when he wasn’t around, Bogota found other ways to entertain himself. He’d still walk alone for miles and miles, and some nights he was still consumed with anger and grief, but in the days he would work. Money wasn’t an issue, so he had a workshop added to his house – complete with the best furnace money could buy.

And as the anger simmered into a dull ache of sadness, he trusted himself enough to call Sergio.

When the other man picked up, he could hear people in the background – a young girl squealing, and a woman who could only be Lisbon, shushing her and encouraging her away from the phone. For a moment, Bogota thought he might lose it anyway.

‘Sergio’, he said, tersely.

‘Bogota.’

Neither said anything, and Bogota clenched and unclenched his fist several times, unable to block out the sound of Lisbon talking to her daughter, somewhere in the distance.

‘How are you?’ Sergio asked eventually. He sounded nervous.

‘I’m ok’, Bogota said, surprising himself with the assertion. ‘I’m starting a business.’

He heard Sergio let out a breath, and he would have wagered most of his share of the fortune that this was not what the other man had expected.

‘I doubt you need my advice for that.’

‘No’, Bogota said. ‘I know how to run a business. I need advice on how to do it without giving us away.’

He refrained from adding that not everybody deserved that courtesy.

‘Of course’, Sergio said, and they spend the next hour discussing contacts, safety procedure and costs. It turned out Bogota could probably have figured out most of the particulars himself, but he realised he was pleased to hear Sergio’s voice, and he could tell the other man was physically relaxing as their talk went on. It got so friendly that he almost expected Andrés and Martín to pop up beside them – perhaps Marseille too.

As the conversation drifted from business to nostalgia, he heard a door creak open at Sergio’s end.

‘Is that Lisbon?’ he asked.

‘It is’, Sergio said. Bogota heard him telling Lisbon who was on the phone, and a moment later, there she was, in his ear.

‘How are you getting on over there?’ she asked warmly.

‘I spend my nights cursing your boyfriend’s stupid plan, but I’m fine.’

He appreciated that she didn’t correct him as to the creator of the plan, and just sighed sympathetically. It was easier to talk to her about his anger than Sergio, somehow.

‘She should never have died like that’, she said quietly.

‘No.’ 

* * *

Within six months of arriving in Yala, Bogota was the worst-kept secret on the whole island. He would make and fix _anything_ , rumour had it, for free (although with the help of Basith he was careful to only work for the truly needy and not deprive local businesses of their income). He was also not above creating elaborate custom work for paying customers, and there were whispers that Jacqueline Fernandez commissioned several sculptures by him.

And then, when he wasn’t sculpting or welding or forging, he was probably getting involved in the odd robbery. When he was photographed involved in a very near-miss getaway in Peru, he got an angry call from Denver, informing him that if they were forced to do a third heist to rescue him from torture as well, he was only going to join in in order to be able to stick his foot through _your fucking stupid face, Bogota_ when they found him. Bogota heard Stockholm objecting to the choice of words in the background, and he hung up, chuckling. He settled down in his workshop, and got to work on a set of pans.

When Lisbon and Sergio rung him up with a proposal a month later, he was all ears.

**_Marseille – Mundum, Cameroon_ **

Marseille liked Cameroon. He got a part-time job at the Kagwene Gorilla Sanctuary, and another part time job which involved killing rather a lot of corrupt officials – not only in Cameroon, but all over the world. His face wasn’t known, so he didn’t have to do much to blend in – he could stroll through busy cities on his way to catch a commercial flight and use his real ID to book hotels. He didn’t relish that part, though – unlike some of the others, he’d never craved the bustle of a metropolis. In fact, he felt happiest amongst the gorillas. There was a huge male who he’d affectionately named Ojong, and although he kept his distance for months, Ojong eventually got used to his presence, and would come to greet him whenever he was around.

He also had Mila. He found her at a rescue centre when he first arrived, a tall, skinny and mournful-looking jet-black lurcher with scars on her left flank. He took her home and she’d not left his side since.

When he tended to the gorillas, she was there, trotting along by his side (although she was wary of Ojong, and he didn’t blame her). She also came with him on his hits. She didn’t mind gunfire or hand-to-hand struggles, but he learned that she was scared of rotund white men with glasses, and her anguished barks nearly cost him a kill once. The sound startled him, and he’d shot the man clumsily, not bothered to check if he was dead, and withdrawn into the shadows to comfort her. Luckily, he’d been able to finish him off later in hospital, leaving Mila, for once, in his hotel room.

He couldn’t ask for much more.

He kept in touch with the others though, primarily Sergio, but he’d gladly take calls from Bogota and Martín too. He’d quietly listen to their adventures and anxieties, and he’d occasionally update them on his and Mila’s wellbeing, and then they’d hang up, until the next time.

Things were in motion, though, and Marseille was glad. He’d got a call from Lisbon about six months into his new life, and since then the calls had got more frequent, and he’d had to dial back on the hit work as he researched and bribed and occasionally violently extracted his way to non-public information. He never told Lisbon about the broken teeth.

He was happy. And he had Mila.

**_Palermo and Helsinki – Villa Pehuenia, Argentina_ **

It had been a long, uncomfortable and anxious journey to Argentina – choppy seas and the bottoms of aircrafts and lurching, pitch-black trucks. But they’d arrived, eventually, and on the way they’d talked.

Martín had started at the beginning, with Berlin, and Helsinki had listened. He’d listened as Martín recounted the planning, the camaraderie and the aching longing that had crept into his veins unbidden, and which refused to leave. He felt Martín’s pain as he described Tatiana, ground his teeth as he told of Sergio’s misgivings, and of the growing rift that opened and eventually ripped him and Andrés apart. He held him as he sobbed in a filthy warehouse, somewhere in Brazil, about how he had hated Sergio and Andrés and, most of all, himself, and how everything had conspired to prove everyone right about him. How his hatred had turned outward and taken everything away from his newly formed family.

Helsinki talked too. He told Martín of the war in hushed tones, details he’d never even shared with Nairobi, spurred on by the other man’s honesty but afraid of the reaction his words might provoke. He spoke of unity, and then of following orders and then, finally, of doubt come too late. He spoke of how he and Oslo had stayed and fought for the wrong side, driving people from their homes, too many innocent casualties to count. But he also spoke of camaraderie, of love, of moments shared with strange soldiers in ransacked towns. He couldn’t meet Martín’s eyes as he recounted Oslo’s death, but the other man’s fingers had brushed his tears away anyway, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. And after that, he spoke of Nairobi, as they huddled together in that warehouse in Brazil – of the first heist and, later, in La Pampa together. Despite Oslo’s death he had never felt so content – to be loved and to love in return, with no gunfire symphony scoring their story. He told Martín how Nairobi had told him in Italy that he was no good for him, and they had laughed through tears and held each other close.

And then they had arrived, and their conversations had turned to the present and future.

That first few months, they didn’t do a lot. They were both getting used to the others’ idiosyncrasies, both gauging whether this was a relationship that would last, or if they had just been two people, thrown together, who had reached out and grabbed the nearest available source of comfort.

And Martín started retreating.

While Mirko worked in the garden, he would go for long, meandering walks in the mountains, avoiding the tourist trails, and only turning back when the light started to fade. He was constantly, achingly aware of how much pain he had caused Mirko already, and he wanted to be absolutely sure of his conviction, of his commitment, before he gave him any more hope that he would inevitably shatter.

Sometimes, when he returned, he would find Mirko on the phone – often to Bogota, sometimes Sergio, once Tokyo. That last time, they were talking about Nairobi, and he’d slunk from the room before he was noticed.

* * *

‘You’re hiding from me’, Mirko remarked one day, almost five months into their increasingly distant co-habitation. He was stretched out on the sofa, drink in hand, watching a Serbian soap opera without subtitles, which Martín could not yet understand, despite his best efforts.

‘I’m right here’, he said, smiling faintly and perching on the arm of the sofa.

‘No’, Mirko said, sitting up and turning down the volume. ‘Every day, you’re gone. And you don’t want to look forward.’

He shifted himself so that Martín could come down onto the sofa with him, and pressed a scratchy kiss to his temple.

‘I understand you were never sure about us’, he said. ‘It’s okay.’

‘No’, Martín said, the word wrenching itself from him involuntarily as he felt panic flare in his chest, and as he experienced, finally, the surge of clarity that had evaded him on those mountain-top walks. ‘ _No._ ’

‘No?’

‘Mirko, I am not a brave man’, Martín began. He felt something in him snap, and tears sprang, unbidden, to run down his cheeks. His voice shook and cracked. ‘I have caused a great deal of pain to a great many people, including you, and including myself.’

Mirko was looking at him, a soft expression on his face, his head tilted to the side. He wiped Martín’s tears with strong hands.

‘And I told you that, despite that, I wouldn’t lose you.’

‘Yes’, he said. ‘You did. And I wanted to be deserving of that. But most of all, I wanted to avoid causing you anymore pain. I wanted to be certain. Because I – ’

He stopped, trying to recompose himself. Mirko was patient, and they sat on the sofa in silence for a moment. In the background, tiny voices argued in Serbian on the TV, slamming doors.

‘No one is ever certain’, Mirko said, after a while.

‘I’m certain’, Martín said, fixing the man in front of him with a hard, determined stare. ‘I’m certain now.’

He cupped Mirko’s face in his hands and, slowly, gently, kissed him. It was soft and questioning, just for a moment. Martín found himself trying to commit this feeling to memory – the scratch of Mirko’s beard on his skin, the feel of his hands threaded in his hair. The way his lips moved against his own. The way it felt to brush his fingertips against his face and feel him sigh against his mouth.

And then something clicked, and suddenly he had Mirko’s comforting weight on top of him, pressing him further into the sofa, and Mirko’s strong hands under his shirt. Soft kisses became desperate – tongues and teeth and _I love you so much_ – and both of them knew, in that moment. They knew.

**_Tokyo, Rio, Mónica and Denver – Isla Saona, Dominican Republic_ **

Tokyo walked to the van with Lisbon’s words ringing in her ears: _you did everything_.

Everything wasn’t something she’d ever thought she’d give someone else. It was too close to _forever_ , too close to the Professor and Lisbon’s _absolutely sure_. She was made of _it’s nothings_ and _yeah maybes_ and _slow downs_. They protected her. And Rio should have known, he should have seen it – because of course she was going to leave, because it was all she’d ever done. He’d had no right to fall apart like that, no right to drag her down with him.

She could have stayed in Panama, drinking cocktails and dancing, letting him fade into a happy memory, not examining too closely what might have happened to him. It should have been easy. Except that suddenly she thought she might want everything after all, or at least the possibility of everything. She was left with a creeping dread that settled in her stomach like hot ash, burning her when she tried to look away.

So she vowed to find him, to do _everything_ , and she fucked up everyone’s lives in the process, because maybe, if she kept going, the burning in her chest would cool. But now Nairobi was dead, and the hot ashes had snarled into a furnace, and there he was, laughing in the front of a van with Stockholm, not even looking at her.

 _Everything_.

She wanted to scream, to call the fucking cops and turn him over to them, to jump into one of the spare cars and speed away without a backwards look.

Instead, she climbed into the van next to Stockholm and forced a smile. She wasn’t angry at _Mónica_. Mostly, she was angry at herself.

Tokyo’s rage and grief simmered all the way across the Atlantic.

On her good days she was verging on cheerful. She would laugh with Denver, roll her eyes with Stockholm and fall asleep on Rio’s shoulder to the thrum of the motorway or the whirring of a huge engine.

On her bad days she’d watch the other three people travelling beside her jealously, stony-faced and tight lipped. They had no privacy, and she was forced to watch as they patched their broken relationships, pretending she couldn’t hear – eyes on the road or feigning sleep, or just fixated on a magazine, turning the glossy pages with vehemence. Denver was probably more infuriating than Rio on those days. She needed his rage alongside her own, but he was all soft eyes and understanding, listening as Mónica reassured him, told him that she could love them both. That she wanted to _be with_ him, but she needed him to talk, to really talk, and maybe go to therapy to deal with his anger.

Tokyo wished for the Denver who would have only heard the part about her loving Rio, who would have jumped out of a moving van or punched Rio in the face or yelled. She needed someone on her side, someone who couldn’t be an adult about all this, not yet.

* * *

Eventually, Tokyo cooled.

She had been thinking about Lisbon’s words a lot. She’d also been thinking about the _everything_ that the inspector been willing to give up for the Professor, initially with some jealousy, but then with determined resignation. Maybe in order to save Rio, she had to let herself be torn apart and keep on going. Maybe that was her bullet.

She silently leant into the pain as they set themselves up in two houses beside the sea, as she and Rio unpacked their bags in separate bedrooms.

A few days into their new life, she found herself alone with Mónica for the first time since they’d arrived. She was a little drunk. She didn’t notice him avoiding her gaze so much when she was drunk.

‘Are you angry?’ Mónica asked. She wasn’t sober either – she was sipping one of the mojitos they’d made earlier, and winced as it hit her tongue. They’d definitely gone overboard on the rum.

‘No’, Tokyo said shortly. She paused, then: ‘Sometimes’.

‘At Rio? At me?’

Tokyo didn’t say anything, and Mónica set her drink down carefully and leaned towards her, as if creeping towards a wild animal that might sink its teeth into her at any moment.

‘Please stay’, she said. ‘Even if you and Rio can’t… work it out’.

Tokyo met her eyes, and a fresh wave of hurt washed over her, in spite of the alcohol.

‘You must think I’m pathetic’, she said.

‘No, I don’t.’

Tokyo scoffed.

‘I don’t’, Mónica said again, and in spite of herself, Tokyo found that she believed her. ‘Rio’s not the only one here with trauma, Tokyo. And – if I was you – I’d be mad as hell.’

‘You would?’ Tokyo asked, the hurt turning to a little spark of hope.

‘Seriously? You did a lot for him, and his reaction is to dump you?’

Tokyo turned away.

‘I mean it’, Mónica said, clearly made brave by the mojito. ‘Rio has every right to date or not date whoever he wants. But I don’t think then was the right moment.’ 

They smiled at each other, understanding passing between them, and for the first time since she’d sat with Rio in that bath, Tokyo felt okay. She took a breath.

* * *

They spent several months like that: lounging in the sun, making deadly mojitos, and trying to fix their tangled relationships.

The family unit of Denver, Mónica and Cincinnati quickly reformed. The adults did counselling together, organised via secure video chat with the help of a few friends in Pakistan, and the little boy was very happy to have not only his parents back, but two of his new aunties and uncles too. Before long, Denver’s laugh rang out across their house, and the couple could be regularly spotted sunbathing on the beach while Cincinnati ran up and down to the ocean. They stayed close together, whispering together and stealing kisses. Tokyo once heard the words ‘…little brother or sister’ come out of Denver’s mouth as she’d barged into their house to borrow something. The three of them had looked at each other, and Tokyo had felt an odd twist of pleasure as she’d surveyed the scene. Denver looked sheepish and Mónica blushed, but the air felt hopeful.

Tokyo and Rio took longer to heal. A lot of the time, Rio hung around in Denver and Mónica’s house like a second adopted son, leaving Tokyo alone in the other. He seemed awkward around her, and if he hated her that much, she wished he’d just say.

Four months into life on the island, and Rio came into Tokyo’s bedroom without explanation or warning, and settled himself next to her on the bed. It felt very intimate, and Tokyo wasn’t sure what to do with herself. There had been a few stupid, drunken nights where they’d stumbled into this very room with their mouths on each other’s skin and their hands viciously ripping at clothes, but he’d never ventured in here sober. In the daytime he was a pleasant housemate, and Tokyo wasn’t sure she’d ever hated anything more.

‘I want to move out’, Rio said, eyes on his shoes. His voice roused her from her thoughts and made her stomach plummet.

‘I’m not going to stop you’, she said, shrugging.

It was always easier to act like she didn’t care – maybe the anger hadn’t gone completely. And she didn’t want him to know that she cared what he did. It wasn’t _her_.

‘Okay’, Rio said.

They sat in silence for a bit.

‘So do you have a house already?’ she asked.

‘I also want to date you.’

Her head snapped round to look at him, and he slowly moved his gaze from his own feet to meet her eyes.

‘I don’t want to break up with you, Tokyo’, he went on. ‘But I've been thinking. If we’re going to do this, I want to do it properly. Live in different houses and go to dinner, and not jump into a live-in relationship based on fucking in secret during a robbery. I want to get to know you.’

‘You know the important stuff already’, she breathed, not quite believing what he was saying.

‘I know. But I want to ask you stupid questions about your family and your job and your favourite book too. I want to pick you up and worry about why you’ve not texted back. Don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘I need to be normal’, he said.

‘You’re a millionaire, Rio.’

He shrugged.

‘I think I might save it, in case I have kids one day. Get a real job for now.’

‘Okay’, Tokyo said, nodding and crying. ‘Okay.’

* * *

Mónica, it turned out, wasn’t made for a life of endless cocktails, swimming and crime novels any more than Tokyo was, and as Tokyo struggled with the creeping restlessness, she couldn’t have been more pleased.

Mónica had, after all, been a civil servant, and prior to falling in love with Denver, had intended, one day, to get Arturo’s job, or something like it. She was used to working towards something bigger than herself.

By contrast, their men couldn’t have been more content.

Rio bought a house a few miles down the shore, and he delighted in picking Tokyo up every Friday night in a horrible second-hand car he had bought in the name of ‘staying incognito’. He would read restaurant reviews to her beforehand, bring her flowers, and then bore her senseless by trying to explain coding over dinner. She got revenge by practising his favourite video games with Denver and Stockholm, feigning ignorance as he ‘taught’ her how to play, and then soundly kicking his arse. It was lovely. Tokyo was happy, but she wasn’t fulfilled in the way Rio was. She loved him, and she needed something else to do _while_ she loved him.

Denver, meanwhile, the man who had been beating people up since he was tiny, now wanted nothing more than to look after his wife and his kid. He started learning how to fix cars, properly. He read to Cincinnati every night, although he thought children’s books were stupid, and sometimes Mónica would peek in on them to hear Denver reading to him from a magazine, or one of her novels. He even started recounting his own childhood and teenage years, and although he did his best to censor it and tell their son why the choices he made were bad, the little boy enjoyed it far too much, and given their rather fortuitous circumstances, she wasn’t sure he would believe the choices his dad made were really _that_ bad. And just like Tokyo, Mónica adored every moment with her family, but she needed something else.

The call they received a few weeks later couldn’t have come at a better time. 

**_Raquel and Sergio – Muna Island, Indonesia_ **

It took them two weeks to make it to Indonesia.

It was a strange trip, full of contrasts – exhilaration and relief alongside tedium, irritability and pain.

On the first night, tucked away in a warehouse in Gibraltar, they’d clung to each other. Sergio held Raquel tightly against his chest and kissed her until they were both giddy, and together they’d gone over the whole extraction plan from that point onwards, sometimes speaking the words together, rehearsed as it was, sometimes interrupting each other and continuing the plan with a finger over the other’s lips.

That first week, if not for the constant fear of law enforcement, was almost the honeymoon they’d envisaged at the beginning of the heist. They drove, they walked, they bought food from local families, and for fleeting moments, eating at a roadside with her head on his shoulder, Raquel could forget the pain in her leg and the fact that she was still being hunted. If they’d had somewhere secure and hygienic to fulfil the promises in the stolen, hungry kisses they wrenched from one another in the dark, it would have been perfect.

Still, their avoidance of built up areas provided some breathtaking scenery, although even the pitch-black 18-hour stint in the back of a lorry across Libya wasn’t so bad. Raquel had time to redress her leg properly, and Sergio slept soundly for the first time since the beginning of the heist, his head rested against her good leg.

They were crossing the Pakistani border into India when Raquel brought up something she’d started thinking about as they'd fled the carpark, over a week ago.

‘I don’t think we should stop’, she said. She was eating a wrap, and he was driving, having won the you-need-to-rest-your-leg argument they’d had as they’d hastily switched vehicles at Sain Wari.

‘Neither do I, we’ve only been driving for an hour. Are you ok?’

Raquel grinned.

‘Not driving, you idiot’, she said, giving his shoulder a playful shove. ‘Heists. Fighting injustice.’

‘ _What_?’

He looked so surprised, she thought he might drive them straight off the road.

‘I’m serious. In one way or another, it’s what both of our lives have always been about. And it’s not like Interpol could want us _more_ than they already do.’

Sergio’s mouth was now completely open, his eyes widened, a picture of comic-book surprise as he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

‘But… what about Paula? What about Mariví?’

‘I’m not suggesting robbing a bank every other week, Sergio. I’m suggesting researching where our help is most needed over a period of time, and meticulously planning whatever action can best make a statement about that injustice. It would be years.’

‘Is that really…what you want?’

‘Do you see anyone else in this car with a gun to my head?’

His shock started to melt into a huge, stupid grin.

‘And you’re not just saying it… for me?’

‘Sergio’, she said. ‘I love you, but I assure you I do not suggest committing crimes to _get a boy to like me_.’

‘You’re perfect’, he said, stealing a glance in her direction.

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, trailing one hand along his thigh as she did so. He shot her a pained look.

‘Hey, concentrate on the road’, she told him, smirking. ‘I need you to get us to Indonesia in one piece so you can show me just how perfect you think I am.’

* * *

Paula threw herself into Raquel’s arms with such enthusiasm that she was nearly knocked over backwards. The physical blow was followed by a tirade of information about what she’d been doing while Raquel was away – from market visits, to homework, to giant jellyfish, to packing up the old house.

The physical contact and the surge of information was immediately far too much for Raquel, and she found herself clutching at her daughter and sinking to the floor, sobbing as she held her against her. She didn’t take in a word of what Paula said. All she knew was the smell of her hair and the feel of her little frame in her arms.

‘Did you have fun?’ Paula asked uncertainly as Raquel finally let go and wiped her streaming eyes with her sleeve.

Raquel nodded and continued crying, and Paula rubbed her on the shoulder, looking confused.

‘It was _really_ fun in Italy’, Raquel said finally, giving her daughter a weak smile. ‘Do you remember when we went, when you were little?’

Paula might have answered, but at that moment Sergio appeared, laden with bags, and she immediately gravitated towards the adult who was not currently weeping on the hallway floor.

‘Why is mama sad?’ she asked him, stretching out her arms for a hug from him as well.

He put the bags down and hoisted her into the air.

‘We missed you’, he told her, and shifting Paula to his right side, he extended a hand and pulled Raquel into their embrace. ‘Sometimes people cry when they’re happy.’

Once Paula had wriggled away, and Raquel had managed to pull herself together, she took a moment to look around, to notice the one person missing from their tearful hug.

‘Mum?’ she called, striding through the house and randomly opening doors. ‘Mum?’

She found her quickly enough, in the garden with a new nurse. The pair of them were weeding and chatting together.

‘Mum!’

Mariví looked up at her, and smiled. The tears that she had just wiped away sprang right back.

‘Oh _there_ you are. I knew you had to be back soon.’

Mariví let Raquel hug her, humming cheerfully as her daughter squeezed her tight, but Raquel felt dread tugging at her heart as she broke away too soon, and she had to fight not to burst into tears. She clearly had no idea how long they’d been away. As far as she knew, she and Sergio had just popped out for a day trip, or to get milk.

Trying to keep her emotions in check, she turned instead to the woman holding Mariví’s trowel, and forced a smile.

‘Hi’, she said. ‘I’m Raquel – I’m her daughter.’

‘Citra’, said the woman, smiling too. She was slight and looked friendly, and Raquel could tell that her mother liked her already.

‘It’s nice to meet you’, Raquel said, shaking her hand. ‘Can I get you a drink or anything?’

‘No thank you ma’am’, Citra said, and Raquel nodded, turning away before they saw her shatter.

* * *

On their second night in Indonesia, Raquel and Sergio were lying in bed, their naked bodies tangled together. Raquel’s head was on his chest and he had one arm draped around her shoulders while his other hand traced delicate patterns on her belly. He felt completely happy.

It was odd, he thought, savouring the feel of her soft skin under his fingers. As an institution, he’d never held marriage in much regard. Andrés’s disastrous entanglements were enough to put anyone off for life, and without a religious background he’d just never seen the _point_ , even if he did ever fall in love (whatever that meant, as he’d thought at the time). And so many people had suffered in what was a loving-union-turned-legal-prison – including the woman running her fingers down his side – that to jump into it, knowing all that, seemed stupidly, recklessly optimistic.

Almost as stupid and reckless and hopelessly, desperately optimistic as a man who would embrace his adversary in a dingy hangar and set her free, leaving his entire life in her hands.

Life with her was a series of death-defying jumps, each more terrifying than the last. 

‘Marry me’, he whispered into her hair, his fingers pausing on her skin.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then she seemed to take it in, and shifted so that she could look at him.

‘What?’

‘Marry me’, he repeated, brushing hair from her face. ‘Please.’

‘Okay’, she whispered back, her face splitting into a huge grin. ‘Yes, Sergio. Of course I’ll marry you.’

He let out a little laugh – or possibly a sob – at her answer, and held her tighter. Her mouth found his, and he kissed her clumsily, sure now that he was crying by the taste of his tears on their lips.

She threaded a hand into his hair and stroked his scalp softly, her eyes warm and concerned and amused all at once as she drew back from the kiss and contemplated him.

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘I thought you said – ’

‘Why?’ he repeated, incredulous. ‘Raquel…’

Words failed him, and he kissed her again, fiercely claiming her mouth with his own. Just as he felt her melt against him he pulled back, eliciting a little cry from a her, a sound he _definitely_ wanted to try and replicate in just a moment, but not before he’d answered her question.

‘Because I’m in love with you’, he told her, resting his forehead against hers. ‘And I intend to be for a very, _very_ long time.’

* * *

A month passed, and Paula was at school, Mariví had gone into town with Citra, and Raquel and Sergio were sitting at the kitchen table with a laptop. Raquel was currently reading a report on police brutality and Sergio was peering over her shoulder and sipping water.

‘I think you should be in charge’, he said.

‘Of… this?’

He nodded.

‘It was your idea’, he said simply, as if that settled the matter.

‘Sergio’, Raquel said carefully, looking away from her report and closing the laptop. ‘I’m flattered by the gesture, but I think we both know you’re most qualified for this. I have certain areas of expertise, but this is your vocation.’

‘It’s not a gesture’, he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about it since you first suggested we keep going. I have a tendency to pick volatile second-in-commands, I don’t improvise well, and I think I’ve already shown you how badly I handle feelings alongside the command.’ He looked away from her, and she rubbed his arm until he was ready to meet her gaze again. ‘I don’t think you have any of those flaws.’

‘Shouldn’t the leader of the operation be the same person who came up with it? Who knows it best?’

‘Not necessarily. Think of the relationship between a playwright and a director. Of the two of us, you’re the person who has the skill to deal with the actors and the backstage politics. To make sure no one falls off the stage halfway through and cracks their head open.’

Raquel turned his words over in her head. She could feel Sergio watching her, his expression earnest.

‘Alright’, she said.


	3. A good reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang get back together for an altogether different kind of venture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, have I been bad at updating this story. I can do nothing but apologise, and hope this ending will make up, once again, for the inexcusably large gap between updates. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with me - I have received some incredibly generous comments on this fic, and I have appreciated every single hit, kudos and comment.
> 
> Here we go!

**_TWO YEARS AFTER THE ESCAPE, 25KM FROM THE SPANISH COAST_ **

Tokyo looked out over the scene, and she felt whole.

Mónica’s arm was around her waist and Helsinki’s around her shoulders, and both had tears in their eyes, just as the tears in her own eyes slipped, unbidden, down her cheeks.

In front of them, a deck of milling, cheering people with flowers in their hair, their faces aglow in the afternoon sun. Beside them, the rest of their friends: Palermo, in Helsinki’s other arm. Bogota, getting on very well with one of their passengers. Marseille, standing slightly apart, with Mila by his side, a drink in hand and a small smile on his lips. Denver, Rio, Cincinnati and little Malmö were on a big screen ahead of them, cheering from Denver and Mónica’s balcony. And the Professor and Lisbon, in the centre of it all: her dressed in white and laughing, him holding her in his arms, his smile so radiant Tokyo thought she’d never seen someone look so happy.

She supposed that guardian angels needed someone to save them too.

A camera flashed and the band started playing. A cheer went up, and Tokyo brushed away her tears and squeezed Mónica tight. There was no turning back now.

**_TWO MONTHS AFTER THE ESCAPE, MUNA ISLAND, INDONESIA_ **

‘No neocolonialism’, Sergio said, checking off their mental checklist.

He was pacing up and down the kitchen as Raquel focused on a word document on her laptop.

‘No co-opting minority movements for our gain’, she added.

‘No unnecessary danger’, he concluded.

They shared a triumphant, breathless glance.

‘I think we’ve got it’, she said, grinning and holding his gaze. ‘I think we’ve got it.’

He grinned right back at her, rushing over and seizing her face with both hands to press a clumsy, joyful kiss to her lips. She rather liked this little habit of his, whenever they scored a success, and was pleased it had remained a fixture outside the rather more high-stakes pressure of actually being hunted by the police.

When he released her they just looked at each other for a moment, breathing slightly too heavily, letting their new reality wash over them. The feeling was new and exciting, and it flared and bubbled, filling the room.

‘Now we just need to ask everyone’, Raquel whispered.

The excitement in her chest diminished a little as those words escaped her lips. They’d talked at length about what they’d do if everyone declined, and they hadn’t reached a real solution. It wasn’t like there was a surplus of poor, desperate criminals in the world who’d be only too happy to lend a hand, but part of the reason they wanted to keep going was because they’d built a team of people they could trust. A family. They all understood the risks and, more importantly, they _felt_ them. Raquel could see how Sergio’s eyes went dark when he talked about Andrés or Oslo, and she knew exactly how he felt when someone mentioned Nairobi, and he looked like the speaker had punched a hole in his chest. And then there was Moscow, who she’d never met, but who hid in Denver’s righteous rage as much as he shone through as he sang with his family. The people they’d lost were etched into their collective psyche, and with each loss, their determination not to lose anyone else only intensified.

The trouble was, of course, that the best way to protect their friends was to stay at home and enjoy the spoils of their last two jobs, and never look back.

But Raquel Murillo was made to catch bad guys, even if she’d slightly revised her definition of ‘bad’ in the last few years. And Sergio, for his part, had spent most of his life consumed by one righteous obsession or another. Low stakes and inaction were never going to be the consequence of this particular match.

They’d spent the first month in Indonesia arguing about corruption and distribution of wealth – trying to figure out which governments and police forces were the guiltiest, and which institutions would be best to target. The problem was, they’d somewhat made their point in Spain, and going to steal another country’s money or resources, even with safeguards in place to ensure the population wasn’t harmed, seemed self-righteous at best. Sergio, familiar as he was with financial institutions, thought that if they did their research well enough they could justify it, but in the end Raquel had put her foot down, unwilling for Dalí to become a neocolonialist.

That was when they’d made their checklist.

Still, vetoing bank jobs put them back to square one, and it was then that they started looking at people. After all, Raquel had reasoned, whispering earnestly at 4am as Paula and Mariví snored gently in the adjoining rooms, it had all, always, been about people. Even before they were millionaires, money had been _just paper, Raquel_ , and the gold had just been a way of negotiating Rio’s release.

And so they’d started looking at refugees. Since 2015, they’d been in their peripheries, but neither had felt they could help. Raquel would see them on the news after she’d put Paula to bed, but with the early mornings and nothing but abuse to look forward to when she finally got home, she'd never managed to muster the energy to so much as sign a petition. Sergio, for his part, had almost been ready to launch his first heist, and he didn’t have much room in his mind for anything else.

But now they both had the mental space and the resources to do something.

Their little idea blossomed, bursting into full bloom as a huge smuggling ship, emblazoned with the Dalí mask, crammed with the best bodyguards and lawyers money could buy. And trucks – enough for two hundred people at a time.

And as the media floundered over the ship, they’d make their first strikes in person, in mainland Europe, dousing anti-immigrant home secretaries and foreign ministers in paint and vanishing, with just a photograph left behind.

As the attacks became more frequent, the security around government and financial institutions would tighten significantly, but this time, they weren’t interested in them.

This time, their target was the Museo Nacional del Prado. They would barricade themselves in and steal as many stolen artefacts as possible - all of which would be returned to their country of origin. They would empty it of any foreign influence, just as anti-migrant politicians would empty the country of refugees. And this time, they couldn’t be shot at – what police inspector would destroy centuries of art and history when they could catch them on the way out?

All they needed was their team to do it with.

Instead of money, it was about love – about extending love to those in need of it in a meaningful way, without disempowering them. About how the governments had not failed by letting refugees in, but by lying to the public about the impact of their arrival – blaming them for poverty and job losses while they themselves already neglected the poor to feed the rich. A surplus of compassion, which they wanted to fix.

It was the focus on love that sparked an idea in Raquel a few days before they planned to ring the first member of the gang they wanted on board – Palermo.

‘What if we got married on the boat?’ she said suddenly.

Sergio looked up from his book, surprised. Their wedding had occupied a secondary place to their heist plans, up until now.

‘The boat?’ he asked slowly, his eyes wandering to the window, where you could just see their little boat bobbing on the water.

‘The smuggling boat’, Raquel said, feeling herself light up. ‘We’d get married properly here, with mum and Paula, but we could have a big reception on that boat.’

‘I – ’

‘It fits the theme’, she said, cutting off the rejection on his tongue. ‘Love. Family. And it’s perfect for getting their attention – Spain’s greatest thief marries the police inspector who ran away with him on a refugee smuggling trip. We can set the headlines for once.’

He grinned at her.

‘I would love that.’

* * *

Raquel called Palermo by herself. Sergio had tried to persuade her that he would stand a better chance of convincing him, but she insisted. If she was to be in charge of this heist, she needed to know if he was going to respect her as the leader, from the very beginning.

That morning, Sergio had taken Paula out on their boat, and she set herself up in their office. It was evening in Argentina, and she suspected he’d be at home by now. She selected the video call option – she wanted to see his face, to judge his reaction as closely as was possible, thousands of miles away from him.

He looked surprised when he picked up. It wasn't that they never spoke - she’d chatted to him a few times alongside Sergio - but she usually left them to it after a while. He was growing on her, but they weren’t close friends in the same way that the two men were.

‘Lisbon’, he said, blinking faster than usual.

‘Palermo’, she replied.

She smiled, and they exchanged pleasantries on their days so far (for him, a long, rambling walk in the mountains, for her, just breakfast), and then he asked the question they’d both been waiting for.

‘Where’s Sergio?’

‘He’s out with Paula’, Raquel told him, smiling again. ‘On the boat, I think.’

‘How charming.’

They regarded each other carefully. Both were circling, waiting to see if the other would strike, unprovoked.

‘Why are you calling me, Lisbon?’

She leant back in her chair, letting him wait, just a moment longer.

‘We’re planning another heist, and I’d like you on the team.’

He choked.

‘ _You’d_ like me on the team?’

‘I would’, she said. ‘You’re a brilliant man, Martín, you have experience, and now we’ve got the initial idea, it needs detail.’

Martín paused, clearly choosing his next words carefully. She was glad he was aiming for a semblance of respect, and she watched him struggle with it, feeling a little pleased.

‘Forgive me, Lisbon, but why are you the one inviting me? Not to mention the fact that we both know Sergio can plan a job without me.’

She leaned forward, resting her chin on clasped hands.

‘Because there’s been a change in leadership’, she said. ‘We can do it without you, but your engineering expertise is something no one else has.’

‘A change in leadership’, Martín said, carefully.

‘Yes.’

She could see him grappling with it.

‘How did this delightful change occur, I wonder?’

She smiled, a little more broadly than before.

‘I thought you’d be curious’, she told him. ‘But if I don’t tell you, can you accept it?’

His eyes, which had been careful and reserved, flashed with mirth, and he smiled back, a broad grin to match her own.

‘I suppose I can’, he told her. ‘You’re an intelligent woman, trustworthy, with a lot of experience in high-pressure situations alongside difficult characters such as myself.’

Raquel felt herself relax.

‘So you’re in?’ she said.

**_ALMOST FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE ESCAPE, VILLA PEHUENIA, ARGENTINA_ **

Martín and Mirko were cuddled under the covers, legs intertwined, noses touching. Mirko was gently tracing the outline of Martín’s jaw, and Martín, for his part, was drawing little circles on Mirko’s hip with his fingertips.

He felt a sudden, unexpected spike of nerves. Wrapped in Mirko’s arms, the secret he’d been holding onto for months bubbled to the forefront of his mind. He’d been jumpy every time Mirko was on a call with Sergio or Raquel lately, because he knew they’d assume that he’d shared the news. And now the little truth seeped into their shared bliss, and suddenly, lying here, he began to doubt himself. He shouldn’t have accepted without talking to the man beside him. He shouldn't have kept it from him.

At the time, he’d not given it much thought, because perhaps Mirko would be better off if he one day just disappeared, only to resurface on the news months later as an obituary.

He shifted forwards a little, brushing their noses together and pressing another kiss to Mirko’s lips, wanting just a little more before he had to tar this moment with, as seemed inevitable now, his own thoughtlessness.

‘I need to tell you something’, he said, closing his eyes to avoid Mirko’s curious stare.

The other man hummed wordlessly, resting their foreheads together, and continuing his gentle caresses along Martín’s jaw.

‘The Professor is planning another heist.’

That stopped the stroking, and Martín froze too, scared that perhaps he’d just lost everything, just as he realised that he really did want it.

His fear dampened his senses, and as a result, it took him a moment to process what was happening. He felt himself shaking, and, startled, it didn't register immediately that the motion was Mirko laughing. When it did, he finally opened his eyes to stare at him.

‘Of course he is’, Mirko said, still laughing. ‘Of course he is.’

‘And I already agreed to do it’, Martín admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Months ago.’

‘Months’, Mirko stated, and for the first time, Martín felt real distance open between them, and panic blossomed inside him once again.

‘Lisbon’s in charge, actually’, he said, hearing himself filling the air with useless details and cringing, but somehow unable to prevent the words from spilling from his mouth. ‘It was her idea, would you believe it? I suppose we finally have the answer as to how that relationship happened, at least.’

He took a breath, but when Mirko opened his mouth to cut into his spiralling diatribe, Martín continued, too panicked to let him say the words he dreaded.

‘I thought it would be better, when I said yes’, he said, desperately avoiding eye contact, even as Mirko’s strong hands tried to tilt his face towards his own. ‘I thought if I disappeared, it might be the best solution for you.’

‘You’re crazy’, the other man said, finally succeeding in forcing eye contact.

‘Yes.’

‘Is it a good heist? I think Lisbon would make a good commander.’

Martín blinked stupidly.

‘Don’t you want to stay here?’

‘We’ll come back’, Mirko said, and Martín stared for one more second, before crashing their mouths together in breathless, blind relief.

**_SEVEN MONTHS AFTER THE ESCAPE_ **

The squares on the screen flickered and, one by one, came to life. Marseille was first. He sat outside, a little black dog curled on his lap, his hair tied back out of his face. Then there was Tokyo, sprawled dramatically across her sofa in a short red sundress, eating grapes. Mónica came two seconds later, set up in an office space – in the background, they could hear Denver and Cincinnati playing. Bogota appeared soon after, in his workshop and, finally, Palermo and Helsinki. They sat side-by-side, not touching, but clearly happy in one another’s space.

Raquel and Sergio also sat side by side in their office: she in a pale blue dress, him in a loose white shirt with blue flecks to match.

As the squares filled up, so the room came to life. Tokyo and Palermo immediately started ribbing each other. Mónica joined in on Tokyo’s side, and Bogota, after a moment’s hesitation, on Palermo’s. Helsinki roared with laughter. Marseille didn’t say much, just chuckled and stroked Mila.

Raquel, meanwhile, was far too overwhelmed to join in, and she looked sideways at Sergio to find his face a perfect mirror of her internal landscape. He was leaning forwards, drinking in the picture of their gently squabbling friends like a dying man at an oasis, his eyes wide and watery. He opened his mouth every so often, as if to jump in with a point, but someone would cut across before he could, and his open mouth would melt into a fond smile instead, and he’d self-consciously wipe his eyes with a clumsy hand.

Raquel grabbed his free hand, and gave it a squeeze. They really were back.

**_A YEAR AND A HALF AFTER THE ESCAPE, ISLA SAONA, THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC_ **

Mónica and Denver were arguing again.

It had been happening a lot recently, over stupid things like shopping and mowing the lawn.

This argument had started in whispers, because Malmö was sleeping, but it had got heated, and they’d moved from the hallway to the balcony as they tried not to wake her, united as parents even when furious at each other. Mónica wasn't sure where they'd started, but they had finally reached the destination she'd suspected they were heading for months.

‘Stop patronising me, Ricardo. You’ve known for nearly a year.’

‘You are not going, and that is final. The fucking _nerve_ of them, fuck me – ’

‘Oh it’s _final_? Sorry, did I wake up in the 1950s?’

‘If you wanted to fuck around with Tokyo, you should have thought about it before we had Malmö.’

‘Oh this is so not about _Tokyo_.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, it isn’t. Sorry you thought you’d married the nice little housewife.’

A _Maserati_ jibe burned at the back of her throat, but she bit it back, glaring at her husband instead, whose face was flushed with anger.

Denver turned away from her gaze, violently kicking one of the chairs off the balcony and almost howling.

‘I don’t care about you leaving me with the babies, Mónica’, he shouted, hands in his hair, his eyes wild and filled with tears. ‘I don’t care if you never do the fucking laundry again. Fuck, I don’t care if you go and work in Australia, so long as you come back.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ she asked him. She was still angry, but the way his voice cracked wrenched at something in her.

‘This heist is pointless’, he said, desperately. ‘I didn’t want to do the last one, but at least we were saving Rio. This is just an ego trip. That’s it. And you’re not fucking dying for them.’

The last of Mónica’s anger evaporated, and she pulled her husband into her arms. He clung to her, and she felt his tears soak the thin fabric of her pyjama top. She rubbed his back reassuringly, and peppered kisses into his hair.

‘Denver’, she said softly, drawing back enough to look into his eyes. ‘I understand how you feel, I do, but this isn’t about the Professor and Lisbon. And it’s not pointless.’

‘You can’t fix everything’, he told her, cupping her face in his hands.

‘I know’, she said. ‘But this heist is Lisbon’s. I trust her.’

**_TWO YEARS AFTER THE ESCAPE, SOMEWHERE IN_ ** **_MOROCCO_ **

It was an exhilarating feeling, standing on the Moroccan coast, waiting for the boat. The sea crashed against the cliffs, wave after wave, and the breeze that came off it whipped their hair from their faces and filled their noses with its comforting saltwater tang.

The group they had led there was vast – 200 people now spilling out of trucks and lounging in groups on the ground. Most of them were migrants, displaced and desperate, huddled in family units. Grandmas held babies, young teenagers led nervous parents by the hand. Siblings played. The mood was hopeful.

Among the travellers prowled the gang’s hired muscle for the trip: local men and women with broad shoulders and stern brows, winding through the group with M-16s in hand, their eyes darting into the distance, constantly searching for movement. Marseille was in charge of this team, and he sat atop the cab of one of their trucks with binoculars and a sniper rifle.

As well as the mercenaries, there was another group, conspicuous only by their mode of dress: a little too formal for people on a long truck ride across North Africa . They were their human rights lawyers, the key to the operation: ready to ensure that the passage would end in Spain, and not with an unceremonious flight back to Libya.

Raquel’s survey of the gathered crowd was interrupted by the roar of a mighty engine, heralding their boat’s arrival. A ripple shivered through the assembled crowd, and she felt it in the back of her throat – excitement and trepidation in equal measure, hopeful and fragile.

Raquel, Sergio, Tokyo, Mónica, Palermo, Helsinki and Bogota stepped forward as one. As the ship pulled up to the makeshift harbour it soaked them with spray, but they just laughed and moved forwards, leading their passengers onward.

On the hull the Dalí mask gleamed in the sun.

They loaded everyone on, slowly. The mercenaries lingered at the back of the group with Marseille, on the look out until the very last minute. As their passengers boarded and Marseille took care of security, Raquel made sure they had everything they needed – all the mercenaries they were expecting – heaven forbid one absconded and gave them away – all the lawyers, the photographer, the secure internet connection. She found herself watching Tokyo for a moment, already hitting it off with what had to be the most attractive group of people on the whole boat. She smiled and shook her head, then refocused. 

Meanwhile, Sergio and Palermo retreated to a corner to mutter, no doubt about the days to follow, and Helsinki joined Tokyo on the charm offensive.

It took them an hour to be completely ready, but all of a sudden there were no more checks to be made, no more passengers to load. Everyone was where they should be. Raquel extricated herself from the confines of her mental checklist, and wandered over to Sergio and Palermo. They surged away from the harbour to cheers and applause.

With the first hurdle cleared without a border patrol in sight, relief washed through her, and she found herself laughing, hard, at nothing in particular, one hand on Sergio’s shoulder for support. The absurdity of the situation was sinking in. They were cruising away from Morocco on a ship with 200 strangers, armed guards and lawyers, and _this_ was the venue they'd picked for their wedding reception. All that remained was to do a costume change, take a photo and dance. The oddest, and yet most fitting send off to married life, she thought.

The rest of the gang changed into their wedding clothes quickly and headed back to the deck, but Raquel lingered. She needed to call her mum and Paula, and check in with Denver and Rio too.

She spent about half an hour by herself, recentring, letting the feeling of this new adventure wash over her. She chatted with an excited Paula as she put on her dress, as her daughter excitedly recounted the _real_ ceremony back on the island, her role as bridesmaid, and all the legal wedding language she’d learned – in Indonesian – from their officiator. She was wearing her bridesmaid dress again today, and Mariví was dressed up too, although clearly more confused about it. Raquel was pleased to see that between them they'd managed to warm up all the food that she and Sergio had left for them in the freezer for the occasion, and Paula was happily sipping lemonade out of a champagne glass.

She left them to their feast for a moment to connect with Denver and Rio. She cooed at baby Malmö, waved to Cincinnati, and promised both men that she’d send their spouses below deck to talk as soon as she could. Both the Indonesian and Dominican callers could see whoever was in this cabin and the deck, courtesy of a split screen, but speech was only possible here.

Finally, Raquel felt ready to join the others, and she emerged in her dress to whoops and whistles from her friends and a rumble of applause from the other passengers. Sergio pressed a kiss to her cheek, and Helsinki took over the sound system, and suddenly they were a party boat – speakers blaring as they sped towards the one country in the world that most wanted them locked away.

There were fresh flower garlands, and drinks, and food for everyone, and the family units that had clung together all the way from Libya quickly softened and mingled. Sergio somehow immediately managed to find probably the one other person on the boat who spoke Mandarin – a linguist and single dad with two daughters – and the two hit it off immediately. Raquel found herself adopted by a group of thirty- and forty-something women all travelling alone, now banded together. There were mothers and divorcees and doctors and cleaners, and they all danced together, drunk on adrenaline and champagne.

The boat spun around her in a whirl of colour and joy, the champagne and the motion of the waves making her giddy and a tiny bit seasick.

As they hit hour four of their journey, Raquel caught Sergio’s eye, and they made their way towards each other, meeting in the middle of the crowded deck. He wrapped his arms around her and let her twirl them round, his face pinched with concentration as he tried not to trip. His expression made her laugh, and she pulled his face to hers, kissing him softly. She felt wonderfully silly, as if she was 17, sneaking her parents’ alcohol out the house and kissing by the swings after school. 

‘You look happy’, he told her, winding his arms around her waist as the next song came on. She threw hers around his neck in response.

‘I am happy’, she told him, pressing a kiss to his jaw and enjoying the soft scratch of his beard.

‘So am I’, he said, letting her sway them gently to the thrum of the music. ‘Even if my wife does like to make me _dance_.’

She drew back, mock scandalised. In response, he twirled her round, holding her even tighter when she spun back into him.

‘Ready for your close-up?’ he whispered into her hair.

**_THE NEXT DAY_ **

Every paper in Spain bore their photo. Every paper in the _world_.

Sergio Marquina, glowing with joy as he held former inspector Raquel Murillo in his arms. She was laughing, eyes fixed on his, flushed from champagne and dancing. Superimposed over the wedding photo was a photo of their boat as it docked at the port of Roquetas de Mar – huge red Dalís on the hull and 200 people disembarking at their new, safe home.

The photo had been taken barely half an hour away from land, but somehow all trace of the robbers had disappeared from the vessel before it reached Spain.

Tokyo sat in her hotel room in Morocco, the paper in her lap, grinning at the picture, at their collective joy.

She thought back to the first two heists, to _no personal relationships_. How love had torn through their plans and taken down victim after victim. How they’d walked out the other side through a graveyard of dead friends, wishing for gunshot wounds in lieu of the broken hearts that they’d incurred instead.

Love had been a good reason for everything to go wrong, back then. It had seeped into stone cold plans and rotted them from within, and the architects hadn’t noticed the inevitability of it: preaching detachment when passion infused everything they did.

This heist, though: love was the reason it was going to go right. It was built from it, it fed off it, it was integral to its existence.

When everything went wrong, love would take them home.


End file.
